


On Tacit Grounds

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Series: On Tacit Grounds [1]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, Post-Series, Sibling Incest (implied)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:58:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s probably losing her mind. Who would do that? Who would think her husband does that? (Post-series, alternate canon.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Tacit Grounds

They’re walking a fine line between closeness and odd closeness.

She doesn’t know where the thought came from. 

She’s probably losing her mind anyway. Who would do that? Who would think her husband does that?

She doesn’t know where the thought came from, but it’s sticking in her mind, her heart, her stomach, her soul. Maybe it’s the sun and the lazy unrolling of days and nights. It sure makes her imagination prone to run wild; run wild or give her the time to see things she would have never noticed in another place and another time.

It’s small things; innocent things, and sometimes, she thinks she must see too much in them, and is sick to see _so_ much in them. Lingering touches and looks. Complicit smiles. A handful of too-fond memories of hard times they shared as if there’s something undisclosable that made those times almost pleasant. Michael knowing too much about his brother’s late night and early morning habits. Lincoln admitting with fake exasperation that, even at sixteen, Michael used to slip into his bed and cling to him when he’d had a nightmare, and Michael lowering his eyes to the floorboard as if Lincoln has revealed his darkest secret.

Maybe he has.

Sara dreams of herself between them, one night, the kind of dream that ought to leave her aroused and embarrassed about it. And it does arouse and embarrass her, up until the moment when she sees that, no matter how much Michael loves her otherwise, she serves as a proxy between them. She’s a safe screen, a pretense. She comes within her dream and wakes up wet and sweaty, a nausea twisting her stomach and too many thoughts throbbing between her temples.

She lies in the dark and tries to picture them together, Michael with the focused, almost hard, look in his eyes he has with her, the surprise that forces his open mouth when he comes — is he as surprised with Lincoln or does his brother know him so well that pleasure is a sure thing? She knows how Michael looks, sounds, feels, smells and tastes when he’s inside her, but she wonders about Lincoln, how he feels to Michael, how Michael feels to him.

It’s grotesque. The picture that forms in her mind is as grotesque as the notion itself. For all she knows, she’s confusing perfectly legitimate closeness with a brand of intimacy that shouldn’t exist between siblings.

And yet, she eventually asks them the question, because they’re standing on the back deck of the bungalow, too close in every senses of the term. _Is something going on between you?_ If the wording itself is neutral, her tone and face aren’t. She wishes they’d shout at her, that Michael would leave the bungalow in a fit of anger and indignation, almost hopes that Lincoln would call her nuts or watch her with disgust. 

But there’s no shouting, slammed doors or disgust.

Michael doesn’t refute anything. He just shakes his head and whispers, “Sara...” Lincoln won’t look her in the eye. Lincoln isn’t the kind of man who won’t look you in the eye when confronted with most of his offenses, so this one has to be a special kind of sin.

“Sara,” Michael says again, voice rough with worry and hand extending to grab her arm. She understands he’s afraid she’ll leave. He has nothing to be afraid of because she’s not in a condition to even think of leaving.

The images from her dream, the images she tried to summon after it, whirl in front of her eyes. She looks at Michael’s fingers still wrapped around her wrist, but it’s not Michael’s fingers that she needs on her right now. She already knows how they feel — on her, in her. Michael’s fingers aren’t bringing anything new to the situation.

She slips her arm out of Michael’s grasp and pats his shoulder. She’s not going anywhere; she hasn’t traveled this far to leave now.

 _Something is going on, something is going on_. Doesn’t say what is going on, how bad and warped it is, how deep they’re into it. She doesn’t want an answer to that question, though. She’s not able to handle it.

She takes Lincoln’s hand and places it on her stomach, covers it with her own and pushes it down, down, between her legs. Even through the thin fabric of her dress and her panties, she can feel how warm his fingers are and she can imagine the pleasant roughness of his fingertips. They shake like crazy against her, those fingers, and she almost laughs in his face because is this what it takes to break Linc the Sink, a woman forcing his hand between her thighs? 

He licks his lips — they’re dry, so dry, she would lick them for him if they were in a different kind of situation — and nods his head. All right. Whatever _something-is-going-on_ , it’s enough in his mind to abide by anything she demands.

He strokes her through her clothes, slides his hands under her dress and up her legs to remove her underwear. He doesn’t undress her further; he can work around her dress for what she wants. He walks her inside the bungalow, towards a comfortable armchair in the living room, holding her hand, helping her to settle, kneeling before her and parting her legs. She keeps her eyes wide open and watches and notices he’s not shaking anymore. _She_ does when his mouth touches her.

He doesn’t try to meet his brother’s eyes to get his agreement and he certainly doesn’t ask for it out loud. Michael doesn’t say anything at all. That's just about right. She doesn’t utter a word either.

Better to keep it all tacit.

-Fin-

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